


No Longer At War With The World

by talkingtothesky



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Cloud Watching, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Inspired By Tumblr, Love Confessions, M/M, Peace, Podfic Welcome, Reese is a precious baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 14:54:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9825368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/pseuds/talkingtothesky
Summary: They get a house together, with a back yard, and John delights in mowing the vast lawn, for the first time since he was a teenager.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Michaelssw0rd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michaelssw0rd/gifts).



> Prompt: The way you said "I love you" - When we lay together on the fresh spring grass
> 
> I apologize for the painful Doctor Who reference. Apart from that, this is a really happy fic, I promise.

They get a house together, with a back yard, and John delights in mowing the vast lawn, for the first time since he was a teenager. By the time he finishes up, he's sweating in the midday sun. Harold opens the door and Bear comes bounding out, to tackle John down onto his back. They wrestle for a few minutes, until Harold comes out bearing a tray with tall glasses of water and sets them down on the table.

 

John pretends to be a starfish. He's stuck to the floor and can only wave one hand vaguely in the air, shielding his eyes from the sun with the other. Bear's lying on his legs.

 

"Nicely done, Mr. Reese," Harold says, eyeing the lawn. "I imagine you're quite parched now." He brings over a glass and tries to put it in John's hand, but it's clear to both of them that John's only going to spill it. Harold tuts. "Honestly." He kneels down and curves a hand around the back of John's neck, helping him slowly sit upright. Bear gets off him and lies down again further along the lawn, panting happily.

 

John smiles at Harold, and puts his hand on the glass. It's ice cold. The condensation feels good and clean on his aching fingers. But Harold keeps a hold on it and tilts it against John's lips himself. John closes his eyes and swallows grateful gulps of cool, refreshing water.

 

The scent of freshly cut grass, Harold's arm around him. John could be forgiven for feeling sentimental in this moment. When the glass is empty, Harold moves it away from his mouth and John gasps "I love you" without pausing for breath.

 

Harold grins, his cheeks puffing out. "Quite right too," he says shyly, and kisses John's sweaty forehead. Then he gets up to exchange the empty for the second water glass, and John lolls back on the ground, hands clasped on top of his own head. Harold sits upright beside him, stretching his legs out carefully, sipping at the water. "We should get a bird feeder," he muses, and John's heart swells again.

 

"What's your favorite species?" He wonders, because all of a sudden it seems ludicrous that he has never asked.

 

Harold thinks about this. "Purely for its looks? The blue jay. They have a crisp white underbelly and thin black stripes on their tail feathers. But in terms of evolution and skill...sandpipers have developed a long, narrow bill to enable them to probe for food."

 

The first kind sound quite like one of Harold's fancy suits. The second sounds like what Harold does, searching for information.

 

"Harold Sandpaper," John says to himself, sniggering.

 

"Piper, John. And no, I don't think that identity would play."

 

They lapse into companionable silence for a while. Bear has rolled over onto his back, paws in the air, copying his master. John blinks slowly and breathes deep, and if he concentrates he can feel the slightest breeze tickling his hair and cooling his perspiration. Wispy white clouds are drifting across the deep blue sky, and the world feels big and solid at his back, as if to say _I got you_.

 

He reaches out for Finch's hand. It's palm down in the grass, near his hip. His skin is slightly cooler than John's, both from being inside for most of the morning, and touching the chilled water. John strokes Harold's smooth inner wrist with his thumb, and goes back to watching the clouds.

 

"Dragon," he notes, without bothering to explain himself.

 

Harold pays attention. "John?"

 

He points with his free left hand. "In the sky, breathing smoke."

 

Harold sounds baffled. "Are you...making cloud pictures?"

 

"What, you never played that game when you were a kid?"

 

"I don't recall."

 

"C'mere," John pleads, and tugs at Harold's sleeve until he lies down with his head on John's shoulder. "Look, there." He traces the outline of its head with his finger. It is melting away already, the column of the neck distorting, but there's another billow of smoke like a burst of flame.

 

"Okay," Harold says, sceptical. John gently nudges their heads together.

 

A jet flies overhead, far enough away to be virtually silent, leaving a thin straight line, like a piece of chalk.

 

"I think that one's waving to us," Harold suggests, a few minutes later, and John has to scan the clouds carefully to find what Harold is looking at. There is something that looks like a fist wrapped in a bulging glove, down to the crook of an elbow.

 

And then his view of the sky is obscured, because Harold has rolled up and is hovering over him. He looks nervous, and John reaches up to softly pinch his cheek.

 

"John. I love you deeply." Harold says, very quietly.

 

John's heart thuds, and the world keeps turning. "I know."


End file.
